He stopped short in the road, detaining me by the arm, the question coming like a whip-crack:  sharp, loud, violent.

“Is he alive?”

“I don’t know,” I answered, beginning to move forward; “and this is foolish talk—­especially on my part!”

“But I want to know,” he persisted, again detaining me.

“And I don’t know!” I returned emphatically.  “Probably I am entirely mistaken in thinking that I know anything of her whatever.  I ought not to have spoken, unless I knew what I was talking about, and I’d rather not say any more until I do know.”

“Very well,” he said quickly.  “Will you tell me then?”

“Yes—­if you will let it go at that.”

“Thank you,” he said, and with an impulse which was but too plainly one of gratitude, offered me his hand.  I took it, and my soul was disquieted within me, for it was no purpose of mine to set inquiries on foot in regard to the affairs of “Madame d’Armand.”

It was early dusk, that hour, a little silvered but still clear, when the edges of things are beginning to grow indefinite, and usually our sleepy countryside knew no tranquiller time of day; but to-night, as we approached the inn, there were strange shapes in the roadway and other tokens that events were stirring there.

From the courtyard came the sounds of laughter and chattering voices.  Before the entrance stood a couple of open touring-cars; the chauffeurs engaged in cooling the rear tires with buckets of water brought by a personage ordinarily known as Glouglou, whose look and manner, as he performed this office for the leathern dignitaries, so awed me that I wondered I had ever dared address him with any presumption of intimacy.  The cars were great and opulent, of impressive wheel-base, and fore-and-aft they were laden intricately with baggage:  concave trunks fitting behind the tonneaus, thin trunks fastened upon the footboards, green, circular trunks adjusted to the spare tires, all deeply coated with dust.  Here were fineries from Paris, doubtless on their way to flutter over the gay sands of Trouville, and now wandering but temporarily from the road; for such splendours were never designed to dazzle us of Madame Brossard’s.

We were crossing before the machines when one of the drivers saw fit to crank his engine (if that is the knowing phrase) and the thing shook out the usual vibrating uproar.  It had a devastating effect upon my companion.  He uttered a wild exclamation and sprang sideways into me, almost upsetting us both.

“What on earth is the matter?” I asked.  “Did you think the car was starting?”

He turned toward me a face upon which was imprinted the sheer, blank terror of a child.  It passed in an instant however, and he laughed.

“I really didn’t know.  Everything has been so quiet always, out here in the country—­and that horrible racket coming so suddenly—­”

Laughing with him, I took his arm and we turned to enter the archway.  As we did so we almost ran into a tall man who was coming out, evidently intending to speak to one of the drivers.